A Room Without a View
by heliosia
Summary: Maybe this could have made some sort of nostalgic, sepia toned love story. Maybe I could have made millions on what happened between us. Instead, all it left with me are a few patchy memories that have left me with scars I still scratch at.


I can't start a story with "once upon a time". I can't even _tell_ a story. Stories have a plot and development and a moral. My life certainly didn't have a plot, and the only moral that I consider of any use to anybody else is always use a condom.

There's an arguable amount of development in my life because somehow I've gone from a bratty little crier waddling around in my own dirty nappy to a moderately more tolerable adult with clean underwear. And concerning those who can retell to you exactly the moment in which the gravity of their lives changed in tearful detail - well, bullshit. How in God's name did you remember something that trivial from twenty _years_ ago when I can't even remember where I put my bloody keys twenty _minutes_ ago?

Though, there are some things that have stuck with me that I haven't a clue as to _why_.

Take for example the memory of an afternoon I spent in the bathroom of my ex-boyfriend's apartment. And what's more spectacular, we _weren't_ having a good romp on that particular occasion.

I was at his flat for some reason or another, and through another series of events found him in the bathroom, alone and sitting against the bathtub. The room was dark because he hadn't turned the light on and had pulled out the yellow-y night light, but the vent in the ceiling acted as a sky light and cast a blue-gray circle on the ground. I remember feeling distinctly disgusted with Alfred because even in the dark I could see the black and pink splotches of mold in the cracks between the tiles and corners of the tub.

Even this memory isn't very good, though, because the next part is a blur and then I remember sitting next to him with my back against that goddamned mold, so something must have convinced me it was absolutely _necessary_ that I be there.

We were leaning against each other without words. I was looking at the blue-grey circle of light on the floor and, if you'll excuse my brief waxing of poetry, the hue matched the temperature of the room. The air conditioning was blowing through a vent and it had been cold enough to raise goosebumps on my arm.

Back in those days, I was much more taken by mysticism and magic than I am now. To the point where it affected my perception of the world, because I described that bathroom as ethereal I remember. Even if the white light flushed the gray toilet and the beige sink and the off-white tiles with a faint sparkle and the cold air made it feel fresh and clean, if you switched on the half-broken yellow lights it would still be the grimy, damp bathroom it always was.

I didn't tell Alfred my opinion on what we were seeing because I knew even then to be embarrassed to describe a bathroom as _ethereal_. He didn't say anything about why he was in there, either, but he did start going off about the circle of light in the centre of the room.

I don't remember our exact conversation, but it went something like this:

"We learned about this in physics. Like, the shadow from the fan isn't really clear, you know? It's kind of blurry because the light bends around objects."

"What fan?" I asked.

"The one inside the vent."

"Well, what do you mean 'blurry'?"

"Like, this." He stuck his hand out into the ring of light, far above the ground, and waved it so its fuzzy shadow did the same. "See how blurry it all is?" He moved it closer to the ground and the lines became sharper so that you could actually count the five fingers of the shadow. "But, when it's closer, it's clearer."

"Why doesn't the light bend around your hand when it's closer to the ground then?"

Then my memory skips like a bad record. He must have gone off about some science stuff that I wouldn't have remembered in school either. Alfred wasn't necessarily _good_ in science either, but he liked talking about it a lot. When he was still alive, he wanted to be an astrophysicist because he liked how theoretical physics made his head spin. I remember I used to encourage him to try better in school if he wanted to do something like _that_, but I never honestly believed he'd make it.

Judging from the context of the next byte of conversation I've stored, I assume I proceeded to pester him about the light and the shadows until I prodded him to the bounds of his knowledge. It probably wasn't a very long conversation.

"What? Run out of things to science me on, have you?" I said. When Alfred didn't respond, I turned his way and watched him avoid my eyes. The muted light in the room made his blush appear as a grey stain on the apples of his cheeks, and his frown lines looked years ahead of his youth.

And that's it. The memories ends there, snipped of its conclusion by time and no doubt the two concussions I've suffered.

I don't know if I he gave me the telling off I deserved or if I tried to hold his hand in that wordless, half-assed apology I used to give in place of a real one. I couldn't even tell you when it happened. It might have been in the first few months we were together, but I hope it wasn't towards the end when he died. I still feel guilty about that.

It's a useless memory to have, but once in a while it bleeds out like a scab I can't help but itch. There's no context, no moral, I don't even remember most of it. It only serves to further bolster the common knowledge that I am lacking in character and sympathy.

I would probably trade this memory for the known whereabouts of my keys. In fact, I'd trade all of his memories if I could.

_Scratch, scratch._

* * *

Just a little something from a while ago to make sure my account doesn't get dusty ':D


End file.
